


Always

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dementia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Greg's mum has been battling illness, but now the end has arrived. Mycroft is there for him. Always.Hurt/comfort dealing with the loss of a parent.





	Always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CindyLouWho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CindyLouWho/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. 
> 
> A Christmas gift for my dear Cindy Lou Who, who is a magnificent woman and friend. Lots of love to you, my dear.
> 
> Thanks to RomanyWalker for beta'ing. 
> 
> Feedback is welcome. This is a rare foray into hurt/comfort for me.

Greg shifted uncomfortably on the plastic chair, arse cheeks tingling as circulation returned. How long he’d been sitting in the same position he didn’t know, but his knees and back were starting to protest and he knew that he had to get up and move. He lifted his mum’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently, then placed it on her sheet-covered abdomen. “I won’t be long, Mum,” he told the shrunken, frail figure lying the in the centre of the bed. He knew that she couldn’t hear him, and that even if she could she wouldn’t have the foggiest clue who he was or why he was there or what he was on about, but _he_ knew who _she_ was and that was enough. It had to be. “Just getting a coffee, but I’ll be back.”

Wet, congested breathing was the only answer, but Greg knew that she wouldn’t want him sitting at her bedside in discomfort, so he stood before he could change his mind again. Guilt pulling at him, he stepped out of the side room and closed the door softly, cutting off the sounds of his mum’s laboured breathing and her favourite Frank Sinatra album. “Just nipping down to Costa for a drink,” he told the staff at the nurses’ station. “Could you have someone empty her catheter bag, please?”

“I’ll get right on it, Greg,” Brunette Nurse Two replied, smiling sympathetically as she reached across the desk for the door release button. He’d been receiving the exact same smile for the last week, and it rankled no less now than it had seven days ago. It was a smile that said ‘sorry your mum’s dying’, and ‘it’ll be a relief in the end; you know she wouldn’t have wanted to live like this’, and ‘she’s in the best place for her’, and those sentiments were no more reassuring for being delivered by smile than by words. 

Out of the ward, Greg took a deep, fortifying breath, hoping that the stale air would help to clear his head, and started off down the corridor towards the nearest lift, shoes squeaking obnoxiously on the polished floor as he went. The posters decorating the walls on the approach to the lifts espoused the multitudinous health benefits of using the stairs, but he was knackered and his head was pounding, and he really couldn’t give a flying fuck how many calories the four flights to get to Costa would burn. 

Watching the the little display above the doors count down to his floor, Greg’s mind turned back to his mum. She’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease five years earlier and had spent the last year in a nursing home, having reached the point of needing twenty four hour care. He’d left her house in tears the first time she hadn’t recognised him, and the deterioration from there had been rapid; his bright, funny, loving mum had been stolen, one memory at a time, and it had nearly broken him. There was very little that Greg would ask of Mycroft financially, but when his husband had suggested that they get her under the care of a private dementia specialist back in the early stages, he hadn’t hesitated to accept. His mum, however, had been another matter. ‘The NHS is good enough for me, love,’ she’d said, too proud to accept financial help from him. Frustrated, because he knew only too well that money spoke when it came to medical care, Greg had respected her wishes regardless of how tempting it had been to do otherwise, particularly in the later stages of illness. Of course, the end was very much in sight now; repeated chest infections had been followed by a nasty bout of pneumonia, and he and Jan had been warned that she wasn’t strong enough to withstand this second one. 

The lift arrived and Greg squeezed himself in between the random assortment of visitors, patients, and a pair of obnoxiously twittering nurses, keeping his eyes fixed on the closing doors to discourage anyone from speaking to him. His thoughts turned to Jan as the lift began its descent, and the cold weight in his gut grew heavier. She and Phil lived in Strathclyde where they’d set up home when her work had taken her up there in the eighties, and it wasn’t easy for them to get down, between work and helping out with their three grandkids. She’d been down as often as possible in recent months, usually with at least one of the kids in tow, but it wasn’t an easy balancing act and it was taking a toll on all of them. 

Greg sighed as the lift bounced to a stop and fingered his empty pocket as though expecting to find a lighter, more than half wishing that he still smoked. It had been a good couple of years since he’d quit at Mycroft’s urging, but a hit of sweet nicotine right about now would have been _very_ welcome. The doors slid open and he slipped out, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he went. The air on the ground floor was marginally fresher than that on the upper floors and he breathed it in deeply. Flicking his attention between making it down the corridor without walking into someone and the screen of his phone, he found a missed call and voicemail from Mycroft, two texts from Jan, a text from Sherlock whinging about Bradstreet’s handling of a murder case, and a group message about Sunday morning’s match against the Hackney over fifties’ team. By the time he’d got halfway down the queue at Costa, he’d replied to Sherlock and confirmed that he’d be playing on Sunday, and the pull of coffee and a blueberry muffin was almost physical. 

The queue moved slowly and Greg took the opportunity to listen to Mycroft’s voice message. He pressed the phone to his right ear and felt a small smile curl his lips at the sound of his husband’s voice. ‘Congratulations on securing the conviction, my dear. I applaud your restraint at the press conference, too, given the trouble they gave you,’ the message said, Mycroft’s voice hushed in a way that told Greg that he wasn’t alone. There was a sigh, followed by the sound of Mycroft turning, and he continued, ‘My next meeting is starting. If you need me, you only have to call; I can be with you inside half an hour.’ Greg listened to the message again, letting his husband’s voice soothe some of his frayed nerves. So pronounced was the effect that his resolve wavered: it was so very, very tempting to call. To ask for Mycroft to be couriered from whichever bunker he was in, trying to prevent Brexit from sending the country to hell in a handbasket, to give him a hug in a hospital coffee shop. To ask him to pick him up and and take him home so they could shut themselves away from the world and let reality fuck itself. 

An impatient “What can I get you?” from a purple-haired barista broke through Greg’s thoughts, distracting him from his half-arsed plan to send out the Bat Signal. 

Greg, who hadn’t even noticed that he’d reached the front of the queue, smiled apologetically. Raising his voice over the background chatter, he replied, “Large hazelnut latte and a blueberry muffin to have in, please. Oh, and a lemon muffin to take away.” Not that he’d admit to anyone else, but Mycroft had a definite fondness for those muffins. 

Having paid, Greg moved down to the end of the counter to wait for his order and turned his attention to Jan’s texts. Simple queries about his and their mum’s health though they were, he could detect an edge in her words even without a voice. Not sure how to reply, how to tell her that their mum had deteriorated massively since he’d kissed her ‘goodnight’ the evening before, he hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.

“Hey,” the barista working the coffee machine said eventually, pulling Greg’s attention from his phone. “Your order’s ready.”

“Cheers.” Directing a polite smile at the young woman, Greg picked up his tray and set about finding a table. Busy as it was, it took two and a half circuits of the room, but he was eventually wedging himself between two tables to get to a free seat. 

The coffee shop was louder and busier than his nerves were entirely happy with, but he had coffee and a muffin and the seat was far more comfortable than the one in his mum’s room. He settled into it with a grateful sigh and reached for his muffin, mouth almost watering in anticipation. It was soft and moist and sweet, and Greg let his eyes flutter closed as blueberry exploded in his mouth. Taking so much pleasure in a muffin was probably bordering on the pathetic, but it had been a shit Thursday after a shit Wednesday and Friday was looking like it was going to be shit, too, and he’d take his kicks wherever he could get them, thanks very much. 

Half a muffin and a fortifying if too hot mouthful of coffee later, he pulled his phone out and navigated back to Jan’s messages, dithering over how to respond. He and Jan had always been close, but recently things had grown strained between them; if it wasn’t a problem with their mum, it was her and Phil arguing because of the stress they were under, or her worrying that he was going to fall back into alcoholism and not trusting Mycroft to be there for him. He’d told her repeatedly that Mycroft was the best husband he could ask for, that he would look after him if he started to let things slip, but she was his big sister and had been there for him at his worst: she was always going to worry. 

Midway through deleting his fourth reply, Greg decided that the direct way was likely the best one, jumped to the call function, and tapped Jan’s name before he could change his mind. 

“Alright, Greg?” she asked urgently as soon as the call connected. “Has anything — is she —”

“—Mum’s alright, sis,” Greg interrupted, crumbling a chunk of muffin between his fingertips. “Worse than yesterday, but she’s comfortable. Brunette Nurse Three said she opened her eyes this morning, too.”

His sister exhaled heavily, the breath ringing with relief, and then covered the mouthpiece and issued instructions to whichever of her staff she was with. He waited patiently, idly stirring his latte with his free hand, until she was free to talk. “So, why’re you calling me at three thirty, Greggie?”

“I took a half day. Court and a press conference this morning, but I couldn’t be doing with the office. Got here about one.” He lifted the massive cup to his mouth and sipped. “Just came down for a coffee and thought I’d ring instead of texting.”

“Right,” Jan replied, tone telling him that she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Please tell me that you’re having something to eat with that.”

“Course I am. It’s even got fruit in it.” Greg took a bite of his muffin to prove the point, absently watching his fellow customers. The silence drew out, growing heavier between them, until it became too much. “I really don’t think she’s got long, Jan,” he said, and even he could hear the scared little brother seeking comfort. He grimaced and took another bite of muffin, wishing he could go back five minutes and send a text instead. “I know they’ve said this is it, but it just feels...fuck, it really _feels_ like this is it.”

“Christ, I _knew_ I shouldn’t’ve listened when you told me to stay up here 'til the weekend,” Jan sighed. “I’m coming down first thing tomorrow, Greg, no arguments. Get that spare room with the nice view ready for me, and tell Mycroft to pull his finger out; you shouldn’t be there on your own, not with him in the same bloody city.”

Tiredly, Greg ran his free hand through his hair and tugged; this was _exactly_ what he hadn’t wanted to happen. “He’d be here more if I let him, but I tell him ‘no’ because he’s my husband and not my bloody babysitter,” he snapped, unable to help himself. The security and secrecy that cloaked other man made it very difficult to disclose enough to his protective big sister that she’d get off his back about him marrying ‘that frigid bastard’, but recently, with emotions running high, the sniping had increased tenfold. “And, honestly, it’d make me feel a hell of lot better if you could manage not to bitch about him every time we talk.”

“I— I’m sorry, Greggie. I just worry about you; married to that bitch for twenty years and then you manage to bag yourself the coldest man in the country.”

Greg huffed a laugh, half wondering if telling her that Mycroft’s codename was ‘Antarctica’ and that his people had taken to calling Greg ‘Global Warming’ would help. It might take a bit of the edge off, if nothing else. He looked down at the table, noting that his mug was almost empty and only crumbs remained of his muffin. “He’s not cold. Not to me, anyway, and never has been. He loves me, Jan, and I love him. I’m _happy_.”

A gusty sigh came down the phone. “Alright. I’ll drop it, but he hurts you and he’s going to have me to answer to.”

Unable to help himself, Greg smiled at the image of his five foot nothing sister threatening the most dangerous man he’d ever met. A coffee, a muffin, and a chat were apparently medicinal. “Thanks for this, sis,” he said, meaning it. 

“Any time. You know that. I’ll be down tomorrow.”

“Yeah. We’ll see Mum and I’ll take you for dinner.” There was a nice Italian place down near the Tower she’d love, and they both deserved a treat. “You can practice being nice to Mycroft while we’re at it.”

Jan laughed and Greg was glad to hear it; there had been precious little laughter in recent weeks. “Oh, go on then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ending the call, Greg slipped his phone into his jacket pocket, casting a look around the room. It was teeming with people, busier than it had been than when he came in, and there was a woman with a dodgy perm and a laden tray shooting his table hopeful looks from the end of the counter. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered to himself, crumpling the paper muffin case, “I’m moving.” He pushed his used tray to the edge of the table and stood, the paper bag containing Mycroft's lemon muffin clutched in his left hand, and navigated back between the tables and out into the hospital proper. That, too, was busier than it had been when he’d arrived, with visitors flocking in to see family and friends. The air was heavy with hope and fear, with happiness and despair, so much so that it was briefly overwhelming. 

Briskly, Greg walked back toward the bank of lifts. Another hour, he thought, and then he’d go. He needed to tell her about the case with the murderous florist and about the pocket watch he’d bought for Mycroft’s birthday, and then he’d go. He joined the huddle of people waiting for the lifts and pushed his hands deep into his pockets, plotting his evening. He’d be lucky if Mycroft was home by ten, but the thought of going home to an empty house turned him cold. _No_ he thought, _not tonight_. A stop off at the Nag’s Head on the way, maybe. Steak and chips and a couple of pints, and then home to catch up with The Walking Dead was about as good as it was getting; there was no way in hell he was calling and asking Mycroft to leave an important meeting early because he wanted a night on the sofa with his husband. The lift doors opened and Greg slipped in, feeling better for having a plan, vague though it was. 

Sustained by coffee, a blueberry muffin, and thoughts of a steak and a few pints, the walk back to his mum’s ward passed less painfully than the walk to Costa had - squeaky floors and offensive smells and all - and he smiled at the nurse on the desk as she buzzed him back onto the ward. 

“Greg,” she said immediately, and something in her tone turned Greg’s blood cold. She stood from her chair and stepped around the desk, “Can I have word?” 

Head suddenly full of white noise, Greg followed on autopilot when the nurse put her hand on his arm and led him towards the relatives’ room, knowing exactly what was coming. 

Inside the room, which was really no more than a glorified cupboard with a low coffee table and some chairs, she gestured for Greg to take a seat. “I’m very sorry, but your mum passed away ten minutes ago. I was about to call you,” she said, a confidence in her manner that spoke of the number of times she must have broken the same bad news. “It was peaceful and she was comfortable,” she continued, sitting down opposite and gently taking hold of Greg’s hand. “Would you like to spend some time with her?”

“I...yeah. Yeah, please,” Greg replied numbly, the words sounding and feeling like they were being spoken by someone else over the buzzing in his head. “Christ, I was only gone half an hour.”

“It’s not uncommon - even in people with advanced dementia - for patients to slip away when their family leave.” With a sympathetic smile, Blonde Nurse Three squeezed Greg’s hand and nodded at the coffee percolator in the corner of the room. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I, ah,” Greg started, but the end of the sentence evaded him, momentarily hovering just out of reach. He’d been expecting this. He’d _known_ it was coming. Hell, how many times had he delivered the same news in worse circumstances? But, now that the moment was here, now that it was his turn, his brain had apparently gone AWOL. Thinking through what felt like treacle, he shook his head and pasted on a smile. “No, I’m fine, ta. Just had a coffee.” Greg stood and wiped his clammy, shaking hands on his thighs. “I’ll, ah, I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” She stood and opened the door for him, guiding him through it with a hand on him shoulder. “Press the buzzer if you need anything. Anything at all.”

Tucked away at the end of the ward as it was, it seemed to take both and age and no time at all to reach his mum’s room. “Come on, Greg,” he murmured to himself, hand grasping the door handle but making no move to open it. “‘s just Mum; nothing to be afraid of, you daft bastard.” 

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open on the next exhalation, eyes inexorably drawn to the bed as he entered the room. His mum had always been petite, but in death she was _tiny_ , the bed seeming to swallow her completely. Alzheimer’s had ruthlessly picked her mind and body clean, stripping her of her memories and personality and dignity, and now it had taken her life. Greg dropped into the chair beside the bed and picked her fragile hand up, holding it loosely in his own stocky ones. For a long moment he sat and looked at her, waiting for it to hit. She was dead. Gone. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost someone close to him, not by a long shot, and it wasn’t going to be the last. His dad, the bastard, had died in nineteen eighty five and Greg hadn’t even bothered with the funeral. Grandparents and aunts and uncles and friends had followed over the years, but this was his _mum_ , and he’d always been a mummy’s boy. “Christ,” he said, wiping his face with his free hand. _“Christ.”_

He took a deep breath, and then another, and then released his mum’s hand and slid his phone out of his pocket. Hand shaking, he unlocked the phone and navigated to his call list, cold suffusing his body. Mycroft’s name glowed at him from the screen, promising comfort, but he skipped past it and tapped Jan’s instead.

“Really, Greggie,” she said as soon as the call connected. “Don’t tell me you’re ditching me already; we only arranged it twenty minutes ago!”

Momentarily, Greg froze. He’d delivered bad news more times than he’d had hot dinners, but this was his _mum_ and his _sister_ , and fuck it was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. “Jan, I — she’s gone. Fuck, I’m sorry, so sorry, but she’s gone.”

A long moment passed in silence, and then another, and then Jan took a deep, shaky breath. “Oh.” A door closed at the other end of the line, cutting off all sound but his sister’s voice and breathing. “Where are you?”

“The hospital. In her room,” Greg replied, looking at their mum. She looked so peaceful, so at ease, eyes closed and her hair forming a fine grey halo around her head. “She — it happened when I was having coffee. Blonde Nurse Three stopped me on my way back in.” He pulled his eyes up from his mum’s face and cast them around the room. There wasn’t much by way of personal belongings in there, but there were get well cards and family photos on the overbed table, and a fresh nightie was folded at the bottom of the bed; it wouldn’t take him long to clear it. 

“God, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be there on your own,” Jan fretted, voice laden with emotion. Greg wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and hold on. 

They’d been expecting this, had thought they were ready for it, but now the moment was here Greg found that he was woefully unprepared. “I’m fine,” he lied, closing his eyes. “Really. Get Phil to pick you up and go home. We’ll worry about everything else when you get here tomorrow, yeah?”

“I don’t want you sitting around there on your own, not now,” Jan said, voice breaking. “Mum wouldn’t want it, either, you know she wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Greg replied, because he did; his mum would be telling him to get himself home and have a stiff drink or ten if she could, not sit around looking at her like he was half expecting her to start coughing and ask for a cuppa. He shifted in his chair, the plastic creaking in protest under his weight. “I just need — I won’t be long.” He felt like there should be more to say to each other, but words wouldn’t bring Mum back or make them hurt less or make the coming days, weeks, and months any easier. It had long since been agreed that Jan and Phil would travel down to stay with him and Mycroft when the time came, and the funeral arrangements were in place, ready to be set in motion with one call. That could all be dealt with tomorrow when Jan arrived, though, and none of it would benefit from him sitting around in a hospital room with their dead mum. 

“Promise me, Greg, _promise_ me that you’re not going to sit there for hours,” implored Jan, and Greg felt his eyes sting. “It’s not good for you.”

“I promise, sis. I’ll pack her stuff and be off.” Greg blinked to clear his eyes, focusing his attention out of the window. It was well into rush hour now, and the ring road in the distance was absolutely chock-a-block. From this distance, the queuing cars looked like strings of fairy lights, and Greg ardently wished they were, rather than a promise of an hour and half sitting in traffic trying to get home. “Ring me if you need anything. If I ask nicely, I reckon Mycroft’ll even let me borrow one of his helicopters,” Greg mused, only half joking. “It’d get you here inside an hour.” 

Jan sniffed a laugh. “Think I’ll pass on that,” she replied, a tremulous note to her voice. “You know me and heights.”

“I know. Worth a thought, though.” Silence hung heavily between them. Bad news had been delivered and received, they had a plan ready to go, and neither of them had ever been the type to be soothed by meaningless platitudes; there was nothing left to say. “Let me know when you get home, yeah?”

“I will,” Jan sniffed. “I love you, Greg. Always have and always will, even when you drive me mad.”

Greg lost the battle against his tears; they rolled down his cheeks, hot and wet and he was powerless to stop them. “Me too, sis. Me too. Go on, phone Phil and get yourself home. I’ll talk to you later.” He dropped his phone onto his lap and jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Get a grip, man,” he told himself, breathing heavily. 

By the time he removed his hands, the clock on the wall said that just shy of half an hour had passed since he’d entered the room, but where the time had gone Greg couldn’t have said. _“Fuck,”_ he said to no-one particular, eyes scanning the room. Nothing had changed since he’d closed his eyes, but suddenly being closed in a room with his dead mum was unbearable.

Moving quickly, he stood and pulled the holdall he kept there for taking his mum’s laundry home out from under the chair. It took depressingly little time to pack her few belongings away. Her nightie and some underwear was it for clothes, and the get well cards and photos fitted easily into the side pocket. That done, he crossed to the small radio the ward had provided and took out her Frank Sinatra CD, having it secured in its case and added to the small stack of other CDs in short order. With those safely in the bag, the room was empty of his mum’s possessions. “Like she was never here,” he said, followed by a slightly hysterical laugh when his eyes caught on his mum’s body. “Well, not quite.” 

Bag ready, he checked the room for the final time and found nothing else to be taken. “Right, Mum, I’m off,” he said tremulously, bending to kiss her head. His lips lingered in her hair, breathing in her scent for the last time, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to do this again, wouldn’t be able to feel or see or smell her again twisted like a knife in his gut. 

Duffel bag in one hand and Costa bag in the other, the walk out of the ward and into the hospital proper was made on autopilot. Greg was barely aware of making his goodbyes to the staff or thanking them for their care as he went, and he could have been in the lift with Her Majesty and not noticed. He did, however, notice when he got to the ground floor; the air was cooler, fresher, and there were too many people milling around for the noise they were making to escape him. Keen to get the hell out of there, he picked up his pace, pushing between people with far less care than was polite, but he didn’t give a flying fuck about anything but getting the hell out of there as soon as possible. 

The temperature had plummeted in the hours since he'd arrived, and it was spitting with rain, the drops refreshingly cold against his overheated skin. Being in no fit state to drive, he decided to leave his car behind and set off in the direction of the nearest taxi rank. So intent he was on getting to a taxi that Greg completely missed the black Jaguar pulling to a stop directly outside the main entrance and the tall suited figure unfolding himself from the back seat. It wasn’t until he’d gone a good ten steps past it that he registered his husband’s voice calling his name. “Greg!”

Stopping on a penny, Greg latched onto Mycroft’s voice like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. “I — Mycroft? What’re you doing here? What about your meeting?” he asked, walking back towards the car. 

Without hesitation, Mycroft pulled Greg into his arms as soon as he was within range. “I left it when I was informed that your mother had passed away.” He pressed his lips to Greg’s head and the older man let himself melt into his husband’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Greg. Truly.”

Greg had never been so grateful for his husband’s apparent omniscience. “You’re here,” he mumbled intelligently into Mycroft’s coat, the wool rough against his cheek, and soaked up the other man’s warmth and scent and comfort. He felt lost, like the world was spinning out of control around him, but Mycroft was there, holding him close, and Greg knew things would be alright. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I’m here,” Mycroft confirmed, tightening his hold. “I’ll always be here. Always.”


End file.
